I wrote to the executive office to try and get a better explanation for how this policy in any way applies to families whose donor has been retired from the program. Unsurprisingly, I received radio silence.

Then, I corresponded with Donor Sibling Registry founder Wendy Kramer. As the ever-astute Wendy pointed out, the change in policy seems quite bizarre when you consider that sperm banks actually have no idea how many births result from their donors. Why? Because only 20-24% of women report their births to them, on average. So our sperm bank has stopped reporting births on their “best guess” estimates!

So, silliness continues to reign within the under-regulated sperm bank industry. The profits continue to roll in, and parents of donor-conceived children continue to be left in the dark.

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It seems people love firefighters.

So last week I called our sperm bank and asked for some updated numbers. “We don’t give the birth counts any longer” confirmed the same rep, somewhat less chirpily. I got the feeling she was already tired of answering this question. When I pressed her on the change in policy, she of course provided the pat answer handed down from the executive office: birth numbers were being used to make a decision about which donor to use. No kidding, I thought. I’d be put off if my donor of choice already had 38 reported births, however profitable he might be for the sperm bank.

I asked to speak to a supervisor and the rep eagerly transferred me. The more detailed pat explanation I received left me almost speechless. A lot of families will not choose a donor, I was told, if the donor has only one or two reported pregnancies. It’s not that people are put off by too many births, but too few! Our benevolent sperm bank wanted to make sure people understand that all donors are carefully screened and provide high quality motile sperm. Numbers can be misleading.

I asked how the new policy could possibly pertain to families whose donor had already reached the family unit max and are simply looking for an updated count. “We want to make it fair for everyone”, she replied, and so they applied a strict blanket policy no matter who you are. Conveniently, I couldn’t be transferred to someone in the executive office because they were all at a conference. When I do get to speak with the policy-makers, my first question will be: Could the change in policy possibly have anything to do with the escalating media coverage of oversize half-sibling groups and the mounting criticism of the under-regulated U.S. sperm banks? I think we all know what their response will likely be, but I’d like to hear the answer anyway.

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Anyway, complete and total digression. Today is a special occasion thanks to Lisa Belkin at The Huffington Post, who has published an essay that I sent her a few weeks back. Enjoy the read if you decide to check it out.

So Lisa, to quote from Stick Man, one of our favorite nighttime reads by the awesome Julia Donaldson, “thanks, thanks a million, thanks without end”.

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I’m a lame-ass team player. It’s why I like to swim (but please no relay!) and write (no collaboration here!)  But for me, swimming is the ultimate metaphor for parenting. There’s the obvious – the feeling of aloneness or a sudden lapse in basic breathing that leaves you choking ever so slightly as you soldier on. But the more subtle moments give me some hope for my parenting abilities, particularly those of donor-conceived children with whom I’ll presumably have some difficult discussions.

This morning I started fast, but splashy and uncoordinated, probably because I was out last night celebrating my gorgeous friend Lauren’s birthday (a talent supreme). My kick was off and the first quarter mile felt inefficient. Sometime during the next quarter the couple entered the water for our unarranged threesome. Then something kicked in and I swam smoothly, every so often arriving at the deep end and watching him swim deep beneath her.

My parenting is a lot like my swimming. It’s painfully erratic at times. Sometimes it feels so much harder than it should, and I just can’t get my mum groove on, and I don’t know why. Then sometimes when I’m least expecting it, something clicks. My form is smooth and efficient. Instead of dispensing a knee-jerk time out, my daughter and I talk about why she clobbered her brother instead of using her words.

Sometimes I’m a competitive jerk and race people that have no idea they’re being raced. Like that moment when you put yourself above someone else’s parenting skills, even though you yelled at your kid last night. They don’t have the chance to explain themselves (not that they have to) before you judge and decide you’re better.

Sometimes the swim is simply long and hard, but with each lap I somehow get stronger. I complete my mile at my fastest and loosest. The first half-mile may have been dauntingly laborious, but the second half is astonishingly better. Everyone keeps telling me that when your kids are ages five and three it’s much easier than four and two, and of course three and one. The more time you put in, the easier it gets. The difficulties ease up, but undoubtedly you get stronger too and that’s part of the dynamic.

I’m adding the donor-conceived aspect into the mix, so I may have to start training for the middle-aged Olympics, or at least a triathlon. It’s interesting to think that despite all the abuse I got for the Motherlode piece, it’s the dibling moms that I know I’ll be looking to for support and guidance, as all our children get older. And I have a feeling they’ll swim beside me and underneath me, and I will endeavor to do the same for them. Even though we’ve never actually swum together, and possibly never will.

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It’s like the longevity, or lack thereof, of music. It’s hard to predict what songs will still sound fantastic or seem relevant after 30 years, and what will make you cringe. Who imagined in 1984 that Madonna would still be cranking out dance music in the second decade of the 21^st century? I defy anyone to tell me that “Into the Groove” is not still totally danceable. A couple of weeks ago I wrote about playing cherished songs from my teenage years to my daughter. You can hear one of my all-time favorites on the video (or here on You Tube, very worth a listen). Some of it was embarrassingly unlistenable. But some other bands that I haven’t played in years have really held up. I was fanatically into a UK band called The Woodentops at age 17. And their music still sounds great. Anyone who likes the Canadian band Arcade Fire should listen to The Woodentops and you’ll see (or rather hear) a direct musical lineage from one to the other. The only time I saw them play live was at Glastonbury music festival in 1986. Unfortunately I passed out part way through the set from “sunstroke”, or possibly too much beer and pot too early in the day.

Another marvelous British legacy that has resurfaced in recent years is the World War Two-era “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster. Following decades of dusty oblivion, the poster has become a pop-culture phenomenon and spawned an ever-expanding menu of spoof posters and consumer items. “Keep Calm and Eat Cake” hangs in my sister’s kitchen. Social psychologists and media studies-types suggest that the slogan has particular resonance since the 2008 financial crisis and ongoing global economic mess. One of my favorite iterations is “Keep Calm and consolidate all of your debts into one easy monthly payment”. I also have a soft spot for “Keep Calm and Evade the Police”.

I’m thinking I should create a poster that says: “Keep Calm and Don’t Freak Out That Your Children are Donor-Conceived” and hang it in my kitchen. On and off, depending on the day, year, or moon, I fret about what our children will make of all this when they’re teenagers. At times, I feel gripped with terror that one or both of them will experience anger or sorrow or some other painful emotion about their conception. But it may all be OK, and I just don’t know because there are no guarantees. Things can turn out badly for families created the “normal” way too. Nobody really knows if a child is going to become suicidal, or a drug addict, or fall in with the wrong crowd, or simply reject them for a while. All you can do is keep calm and carry on, nurture the relationship and hope it can withstand the tests of time.

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Paul Ryan’s views on “personhood” have also been widely discussed, particularly his recent co-sponsorship of the Sanctity of Human Life Act, a federal bill that defines personhood as legally beginning at fertilization. In other words, a 2-cell embryo (technically not an actual embryo but a zygote) has the same rights as you and I. Several news outlets have interpreted Ryan’s stance on personhood to inherently include, by logical extension, one opposing IVF. Mother Jones’ perspective is “Ryan Sponsored Abortion Bill That Would Make Romney’s Kids Criminals – The VP candidate pushed an anti-abortion bill that would outlaw IVF – which Mitt Romney’s children used.” And, even Canada’s Nation Post questioned: “Would Paul Ryan’s anti-abortion, anti-IVF bill criminalize Mitt Romney’s son?”

It’s a fair assessment, given that the proposed law would make IVF exponentially more complex and traumatic than it already is. As many have pointed out, the law would call into question the entire premise of a typical IVF cycle: stimulating the ovaries in an attempt to procure many more eggs than required, in the hope that some will fertilize and become viable enough to transfer into the uterus. If every 2-cell zygote is a person, then this has significant implications for what you can and cannot do with them, such as discarding, donating, or freezing.

Not so fast, pronounce the blowhards over at Family Scholars. They have their own unique interpretation: that Paul Ryan, in his efforts to outlaw abortion entirely, has spawned some unfortunate and unintended legal ramifications for the one in eight couples that face infertility.

It’s irresponsible to speculate that this is an intentional attempt on the part of Paul Ryan and other congressional Republicans to make the lives of couples who are unable to conceive without assistance for whatever reason even more difficult. … Perhaps, this is merely legal “fallout” from a desperate attempt to recriminalize abortion and contraception.”

When I get really fed up with our almost four-year-old daughter – who can be as inflexible as a 2 by 8 wood plank – I have a slightly ugly penchant for saying “are you kidding me right now?” But I don’t feel even mildly apologetic or inappropriate when I want to say to Paul Ryan and his apologists at Family Scholars and elsewhere, “are you fxxking kidding me right now?”

The prospective VP who thinks abortion should be outlawed, even in instances of rape or incest, doesn’t think that any form of assisted reproductive technology should be outlawed? And what, do you suppose, are his views on donor conception? I don’t think he needs to spell it out. It’s an extremely reasonable assumption that he’s in lockstep with Family Scholars, Jennifer Lahl and her bogus Center for Bioethics and Culture, and all the other judgementalists. Ryan claims to like Rage Against the Machine’s sound, but not the lyrics. It’s akin to liking the existence of an embryo, but not how conceived, if by IVF. Liking the existence of it, but nothing of the substance, the history, or the human dilemmas.

Are you kidding me? This is who could be President? He scares me more than Sarah Palin. I can’t believe it’s happening again, but it feels like it may be time to start resurrecting the back up plan to move back to the UK. At least there, the most extreme institutionalized views are pretty much to the left of Obama.

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Back to the video. This was taken a couple of days ago on a rainy retro afternoon spent introducing music from my youth to the kids. Although in truth anything from before the kids were born I now classify as my youth, as they are catapulting me into middle age faster than our son can fill a diaper genie. Our daughter loves to replay the “silly daddy” video, and I’m struck by the abundance of family footage she’ll always have, compared to the three photos and one audio file we have of the donor. Twenty-first century technology has allowed us to capture moments that transport into the iCloud while we make a cup of tea, then share with family, Facebook or a blog in a couple more clicks of the phone. And if we put any effort into weeding, organizing and preserving footage (nerdy librarian reference) then our kids will have an unbelievably rich archive of family life and love.

Fantastic technological progress has also given us IVF, ICSI and embryo freezing, but for donor-conceived families the footage remains starkly lopsided. Most of my posts seem to end with a sentence beginning with “hopefully”, because I don’t know what the hell is going to happen, but, hopefully, the kids will see that we were, and are, just a normal family with a silly daddy who loves them.

Watch this video on YouTube.

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We spoke for little over an hour, but I could have happily stayed on the phone all day. It was that same sense of connection that I felt when I had the opportunity to talk to Wendy Kramer, Donor Sibling Registry co-founder. These amazing women have such a depth of personal experience, in addition to years spent working with donor conception (DC) families. Without meaning to sound like a gushy DC groupie, I will always remember our first conversations. It was a dose of therapy, a shot of realism, and an intellectual workout, all wrapped up in a soft security blanket. Like talking to your big sister or a favorite cousin. There’s something about these women, and certainly something about this topic. The experience of donor conception can be profoundly isolating, but the flip side is getting to connect with women like Olivia and Wendy.

In some ways I felt like a bit of a fraud talking to Olivia about the “telling and talking” experience. The fact is I’ve had it easy compared to most straight parents of DC children. My family doesn’t judge. My husband’s family loves the kids to pieces. Our friends are progressive. My husband is cool. I used to think we were like a lesbian couple because we always knew we couldn’t conceive kids together and would need a donor. Now I feel like a lesbian couple, more because we live in a supportive bubble and I’ve had to move past caring what anyone thinks anyway. Especially after the blunt force of vicious comments posted in response to my Motherlode article. There’s something strangely liberating about having your words misconstrued, misjudged and maligned. You just stop giving a shit.

I also find myself seeing things increasingly in black and white terms. You’d think it would be the opposite given the emotional nuances of donor conception. And maybe that will change over time. But Olivia asked me what I thought about dealing with people who are critical or unsupportive. The nuanced side of me wanted desperately to reach for some complex string of empathetic considerations. Instead, however, I found myself thinking and saying, quite bluntly, “get rid of them.” And I meant it. Easier said than done, especially if it’s a brother, a close friend, or parent. But if a friend or family member proves unable or unwilling to accept donor conception then you wouldn’t want him or her around your kid anyway. It’s actually a perfectly fine justification for estrangement. Not that estrangement is to be lauded as a general principal, but we all know people who don’t talk to family, and it’s probably not because of donor conception. It’s that they had a falling out over something, or they don’t get along, or they think the other is weird. I know people estranged from a brother, a father, a sister, a daughter. It happens all the time, and I don’t think that parents who have created their family through donor conception have to adhere to some higher standard. If someone in your life doesn’t agree with such a significant life choice, then give him or her the boot. And, perhaps along with the boot, give them some of the literature from Donor Conception Network and Donor Sibling Registry. That way, their online comments might be a little more nuanced and a little less preconceived.

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July 22, 2012 marks the completion of 37 years since my mother died of ovarian cancer, and the beginning of the 38^th year. It’s not a “big” year, like 20, 25 or even 30. By the time we reach the 40^th anniversary of her death, she would have been solidly into “had a good life” range, had she lived. It would be considered a massive loss but no longer tragic. Leaving 5 grown children and nine grandchildren instead of three teenagers and two younger children.

But this year the insignificant number carries a personal resonance. A personal milestone that each of my four older siblings has already transited. Their numbers were all different. Twenty-six plus 18. Twenty-seven plus 17. Thirty plus 14. Thirty-four plus 10. The number of years that she’s been gone, plus the age each of us were when she died, equals our special combination of numbers when we finally reach the age she was at death.

So this year it’s my turn. In a few months I’ll be the last child to become older than she ever became. A lot gets lost over 38 years, not that much was saved. Thankfully I have, and wear, her wedding ring, from my parents’ marriage in October 1956. I was wearing it when I gave birth to each of my two children, and I like to think that she must have been wearing it when she gave birth to each of us. Swollen pregnancy fingers are not a family trait. I have a few other bits and pieces. Some photographs. A small confirmation bible, containing words that she took little consolation from during her last year of life, from what I’m told. Every so often my stepmother sends me random ephemera that she’s discovered in an unpacked box from three moves ago.  When I open the dusty pages of a personal recipe book and read my mother’s familiar 1940s handwriting, I like to hold it up close to my face and inhale. As if I’m breathing in a spec of her. And then I check to see if there are any special words written for me, but there never are.

So much can get lost when someone dies, and I don’t like to think of our children searching for something that doesn’t exist. The more I write and the more I explain, the better will be their understanding and acceptance about how they were conceived. At least that’s my hope. The only alternative is not to write and not to explain, but that just doesn’t feel like an option.

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